Denial in Element

[Vain Composer]

Denial in Element

by Vain Composer

This is purely a work of fiction and is not intented to be anything else, no views represented in this story reflect my own views, such as no characters are intended to reflect anyone else, real or virtual.

"Heretic blood tastes the finest after the purity of Imperial lead repents it." said the grizzled NCO as he smiled. A chip of white enamel made a void in his left incisor that showed the wrath of torn skin in his mouth. This deployment had been longer then a typical one, having gone on two weeks estranged from any sort of Imperial communication device.

The ground was caked with alien remains and some discarded Ordo equipment -- grenade pins and torn rations littered the way which was already knee deep in sludge. Yet the looming Navis ship that had earlier brought the squadron to the alien planet that perched like a deposed God in the exosphere seemed like more of a sick joke. It's existence was only symbolic to the Terra boots on the ground now, as they were virtually alone in a jungle swarming with targets and no way home.

The squad struck a motley crew both on account of a questionable recruitment pool and the trying aspects of a skeleton ground operation. Vexillarius Caecilius acted the part of the supreme leader of rejects, the squad commander. The Vexillarius was an asshole in all aspects of the word. Uncaring, bleak, the look in his eyes seemed to suggest that he counted the seconds in-between his opportunities to spill blood. His last billet had been in headquarters at the Imperial Citadel -- training fresh meat. It earned him a quick demotion as after being particularly frustrated with a Recruit, Caecilius lifted that poor soul by his neck and wrung him around like a damp towel until he was white in the face, and withering away on the barracks concrete.

To some, perhaps in the behavioral health unit, Caecilus would have been determined 'unfit for service' however he still was a well documented killing machine, and previously trained as a squad commander; so they stuck him where they put all the assholes with an attitude who know how to fire a gun straight. Terra infantry; B Cohors, some squad among millions of faceless legions you've never heard of, tasked with finding and killing the enemies of the Emperor, bar none.

But they (the troops) sang, somehow unshaped by the infinite bane of Caecilus as their black steel gripped boots serenaded the mantle of carapaces. Millions of lesser souls, and their lesser dreams -- lesser thoughts seemed to decorate.

One of the younger soldiers had fancied himself an intellectual, Discens Aynacandros. He seemed the defiant stubbled grunt of the squad (the black sheep) who wandered towards a wrinkle in his lip and a sort of Ozymandias like fatal arrogance.

"They don't care for us, we're the ground pounders." came a voice that sounded tired, worn. The voice indeed that of Aynacandros, Aynac as he'd come to be known in shorthand. "They'll probably keep us here until they absolutely have to. Or until we're as dead as the 'heretical scum' we killed." the sarcasm was painfully obvious in his tone, and even more so in the snide finish, Aynac swung his Typhoon knife into a intruding snap of native foliage and said; "The fuel for the dropship is probably worth more then your ass and mine."

The words however, brought a total and uncomforted silence over the group of men in tactical formation. Their SCAR-L's hung low against their abdominal armor as a blanket of unknowing pulled over the men.

It was open insubordination towards indoctrination, if petty at that. As they had been drilled, we do not question, we do not play. We are strong, we are Ordo, we fight to kill the enemies of our ways, or principles. Most of all, as we are told from the genesis, we are right, and we must trust this. Above all, the men from the lowest tier of whale shit infantry up to the squad's acting executive were in fear of the tentative reaction of Caecilus to the young, perhaps naive Discens.

But instead nothing happened for several long moments, beats of umpteen hearts seemed to pound against the rough interior shell of the Imperial UCAs pressed against all of their extremities. Fewer men looked sideways, exchanging feared and unknowing faces, still glowing towards the back of Caecilus who turned into a statuesque figure of grit, the glow of the exotic stars silhouetting his square chin and wide, squinted awry glare. With a bated breath, misty fog silked up his nostrils from afar and Caecilus raised his left fist out into the open, his battle scarred M4 Benelli gripped in his callaced right palm.

Standard tactical hand gestures aside, Caecilus had ordered his men to be on their toes, and as the Vexillarius spread his exposed fingers into a new formation – all the bodies in the squad shifted and a metallic clamor rushed as weapons were raised at the weapons, ammunition secured. Several of the young men began peering over their shoulders, growing increasingly paranoid of their surroundings and the clarity to which Caecilus detected nearby danger.

An ambush – not far from the troubled minds of the squad, as previously when caught in a bog of dirty liquid and filth a grand horror of alien worm bodies jumped up at the unseeing men with grand gripping mouths and blood suckling desire.

A cough escaped one mouth, causing a shudder from the rest. Caecilus grunted low and slow, a deep baritone of musk escaping, the throaty croak echoing off the horizon and the ever thickening overhang of green – overgrowing wasteland and labyrinth of the unknown environment.

Caecilus with his fist still airborne, shotgun at the ready, aimed at a bush of hazy green ambiance in the anterior motioned forward thrice, and immediately all the men began taking three quick bursts of movement. Boots continued to splash forward, pooled water now frantically moving up their legs. The seeming lagoon deepened, much in tandem with their decreasing morale, they’re defining existence seeming to lose sight in the mud and uncertainty.

The rifles were divided through the middle and glued to the flanks, and they all stopped again on the leader’s will.

The last sound Discens Aynac must have heard was not dissimilar to a loud thunder or a sonic boom dominating, as a ravaging pack of wild feline-like animals at that moment made their pounce onto their prey of rifleman.

Screams and blood began to dissipate. All non-relinquished as in what was only at the time chaos, assault rifle fire began to burst out in repetition, rat-a-tat-tatting everything in its wake. Young men and old men alike relished in every millisecond they still were pained with the reality of being alive. If they were lucky enough to have eye protection, sprays of fine crimson mist covered it, as well as fleshy bits of muscle and remnants of organs. For those who were unlucky rather, the remains just went straight into their eyes, stinging and burning.

After several minutes of this firefight, most of the men claimed their lives. The tarn now absolutely littered with the bodies of whatever had attacked them, and one other body -- Discens Aynac the unlucky one, now only feasibly recognized by a head count, his body long since completely destroyed by targets.

Caecilus, coal in his voice even more so, his eyes black and red, new cuts across his face turned around to stare down the large remainder of his squad. Saying nothing, he made a slow count, looking from head to head, surveying like a sick marshal. Seeing one down, he looked, and saw scattered intestines laid upon a melted, disfigured pair of UCAs.

Sure enough, the last one down, the one who questioned – less then fuel, no glory of the Imperium. No care, no reason, no faith. A pair of dog tags swam next to a torn out eye, still attached to the stringy bits of optical nerves.

No one said anything, not even Caecilus, but everyone knew; the world works in balance, and our place, no matter how minuscule, is imperative. As imperative as any Imperial decree or officer’s call; and it’s when we lose this, that we lose ourselves. As was the case, as would be the case.

The men collected their thoughts, donned their head, and continued down the mere.